"Was it very heavy?"
"It weighed next to nothing, sir. I fancy it must have been empty."
"Did you know he was leaving to-night?"
"No, sir, but I believe he took the room by the day."
"I see. We're from the police department. How long have you worked at this hotel?"
The man looked concerned. "Twelve years, sir."
"That's good enough. Say nothing about this to anybody. We'll speak to the manager in the morning."
"Very good, sir."
"Are you going to search the room?" the General asked Gimlet.
"Waste of time," answered Gimlet curtly. "A man engaged on the job he was on would take care to leave nothing behind." He led the way back to suite thirty, and after they had entered, closed the door. "So the bird has flown?" he muttered. "That, I suppose, was only to be expected."
"We'll find him, don't worry," asserted the General. "I'll have Professor Wenson checked up. We've got a fair description of him. And I'll get the Yard on the track of those two cars right away—the taxi and the private car, MAL747."
"They'll have changed the number plate by now," muttered Copper.
"But the plate will still be in existence," averred the General quietly. "I don't think we can do any more until we've had some sleep. You fellows might as well move round to Brummel Square right away. Your quarters are ready and it's a good opportunity to get round.'
At this juncture a police ambulance arrived and collected the bodies. The General and his men departed. Gimlet began packing his suitcase.
"Go and get your kits and take them round to Brummel Square," he ordered. "I'll see you in the morning."
Copper saluted automatically, although he was in civilian clothes. "Aye, aye, sir," he acknowledged.
CHAPTER V
COUNCIL OF WAR
NINE o'clock the following morning found the conference in progress at the Brummel Square headquarters. The General was speaking.
"We've checked up on Wenson," said he. "There is no such person. That is, the particulars he gave on his hotel registration form are fictitious. I suppose that was only to be expected if, as there is reason to suppose, he was the organizer of last night s affair at the Europa. As a result of that the situation has changed somewhat. The head of the Werewolf pack in this country will know by now that the plan miscarried, and why. He will know that a trap was laid and succeeded so far as to destroy two of his men—not that it will matter much to him because one imagines he will have ample reserves to replace them. He will know that the police are now seriously on the trail, which means, in turn, that the Werewolves will exercise even more caution in their operations." The General paused.
"The question arises, what to do next? Unlike a normal crime, when the criminal is content to escape, in this case there is no fugitive." The General looked at Gimlet. "What I mean is, it is not to be expected that the attempt on your life will be abandoned. Thus, the curious situation arises, while you are hunting the wolves, the wolves will be hunting you. The side that finds the other first will have a big advantage—perhaps a vital one.
Our problem is, and will continue to be, how to catch the king wolf. Killing members of his pack may irritate him, but will not seriously affect his programme. As I said just now, there will be no lack of recruits. We are therefore confronted—I might say handicapped—by the task of having to undertake two jobs at the same time. Not only must we wipe out the entire Werewolf brood, but we must, if it is humanly possible, prevent them from continuing their programme of murder." Again the General paused.
"The next point is, what clues, what information have we to work on? Very little. We have examined the police car that collided with the lamp post." The General glanced at Cub. "The car that did the mischief was marked, if not damaged. It's colour was dark green, for it left some of its paint on the police car when it grazed it in passing. I have men out looking for it, also the taxi. Just where they were heading for we don't know, beyond the fact that they were making for the East End; but the East End embraces an enormous area so that doesn't help us much." Again the General turned his eyes on Gimlet. "Have you any ideas about how you would like to proceed?"
Gimlet pondered the question. "It seems to me that we have two schemes, two methods, open to us," he answered slowly. "The first is to allow my movements to become known to the gang so that they will lie in wait for me, and, I hope, find that they have caught a tartar. I will deal with that project in more detail should the need arise. The alternative is to discover, and mount guard over, the next victim selected for death, with the object of both frustrating the attack and following the operatives to their headquarters—not an easy matter, I admit. However, on my own responsibility I have made a start in this direction. I am assuming that after last night's affair the Werewolves will exercise even more cunning than hitherto, but they are bound to go on with their dirty work, otherwise their object will have failed and interest in the Nazi homeland will start to flag. That wouldn't suit them, you may be sure." Gimlet lit a cigartte.
"Early this morning I compiled a short list of probable candidates for Nazi vengeance, and I got in touch, by telephone, with some of them. At the third attempt I found what I was looking for. Freddy Ashton—Captain the Honourable Frederick Ashton to most people—was a star turn in thc Intelligence Service during the war. Posing as a Frenchman, in Occupied Normandy he kept a pub by the name of the Cheval Noir. He did some wonderful work, getting a lot of people out of trouble—including ourselves on one occasion—and bumping off several important Nazis at the same time." Gimlet smiled faintly at the recollection
"By this morning's post Freddie received his death ticket. Actually, it's lucky I rang him up, because as one would expect, he was inclined to take the thing as a joke. He takes most things as a joke. Naturally, I disillusioned him, warning him to watch his step. The snag is—again as one would expect —he wants to go wolf hunting. I managed to persuade him to do nothing until we make personal contact with him. He lives at Wongerford Manor, in Sussex. Now then: it so happens that there is this morning a meet of foxhounds, of which he is the Master, on the local village green. He will, of course, turn out. I tried my utmost to persuade him to make excuses and stay at home, but he wouldn't hear of it. Nothing, I fear, not all the wolves in Europe, will prevent Freddie from hunting if there is a fox to be found."
"He may finish by being hunted himself," put in the General drily.
"That is precisely what I told him, and why. I propose running down to Wongerford this morning, to keep an eye on things. Of course, it doesn't necessarily follow that the wolves will try anything in broad daylight—so far they have worked in the dark; but they might, and as the field becomes scattered there would be opportunities."
"The Werewolves will know all about the hunt, you may be sure," asserted the General. "
I imagine they learn as much as possible about the movements of their victims before they strike at them. It might well be that they sent the death warrant to coincide with the meet of foxhounds at Wongerford."
Gimlet nodded. "That's w
hy I think we had better go
down."
"Even so, if he rides as straight as his reputation suggests, you'll have a job to keep in touch with him."
Gimlet smiled faintly. "You may have noticed that I am wearing riding breeches myself.
I'm hoping to pick up a mount." He looked at his watch. "If we're going to be in time we had better be moving. The meet is timed for eleven o'clock."
"All right," confirmed the General. "Meanwhile I'll get busy at this end. You have no idea, of course, when you will be back?"
"If nothing happens during the day, we may hang on at Wongerford for the night," said Gimlet.
The General nodded. "Very well. Be careful. If the wolves spot you, assuming they know you by sight, they may decide to have another go at you."
"I'll bear it in mind," promised Gimlet. He got up. "Conic on, you fellows, let's move along." He smiled
. "This seems to be a case where we run with the fox and hunt with the hounds."
CHAPTER VI
IN AT THE DEATH
Jr was ten minutes to eleven when Gimlet's car threaded its way through the miscellaneous assortment of humanity that had converged on Wongerford Green to watch a scene that seems never to lose its fascination. It was apparent at a glance that the meet was a popular one. The weather was as perfect as a late autumn day can be and everyone within walking or cycling distance had evidently taken the day off to watch the sport—or at any rate, the start of it. A big field had turned out and there were a good many motor cars—too many, Gimlet observed, as he wound a tortuous course between them in order to get in sight of the hounds.
"Freddie's all right so far, anyway," he remarked, as he brought the car to a standstill. '
There he is, over there, in pink, on the chestnut mare. I'll bet that lady can travel. Whoever hopes to keep up with her will have to ride, and ride hard. I'm afraid it isn't much use trying to pick out any wolves in this mob. We shall have to see how we go."
"Are you going to speak to Captain Ashton, to let him know you're about?" inquired Cub.
"No," answered Gimlet. "He may spot me, in which case he'll know; but I'm hoping he won't. If he did he'd want me to ride with him, and that would defeat my object. Stay where you are while I make some inquiries. By the way, you fellows, would any of you like to ride, if I can get mounts?"
Copper s answer was prompt. "Not fer me," he said warmly. "I'm safer on me own legs."
Trapper clicked his tongue. "I've ridden a packhorse," he observed dubiously.
"That won't help you much in the hunting field," Gimlet told him. "You'd better stay in the car with Copper. How about you, Cub?"
"I'd like to ride if it can be arranged," replied Cub. "My father made me start riding almost as soon as I could walk."
"I'll have a word with Torn Lench, Freddie's huntsman," promised Gimlet as he moved off. "He knows me. He was Freddie's batman in the war. He may let me have his spare horse.''
The others watched him approach the huntsman who smiled a greeting and touched his cap respectfully as he leaned down from the saddle to hear what Gimlet had to say. There was a brief conversation and they disappeared together behind the throng. When, five minutes later, they reappeared, Gimlet was mounted on a tall, upstanding grey horse, leading a small but racy looking black mare. Tom Lench returned to his hounds. Gimlet came straight on to the car. He beckoned to Cub. "Come on," he said sharply. "Up you get. Hounds are about to move off."
While Cub was adjusting his stirrup leathers Gimlet spoke to the others. "You'll have to follow the field as well as you can," he ordered. "We're going to draw the Gorse first—it'
s about half a mile down the road. There are plenty of roads—too many in fact—so you should be able to keep somewhere near us. If you can keep in touch with hounds you'll never be far away from Captain Ashton; he's the man you've got to watch. He's unmistakable in pink, on that mare. If you lose us come back here.'
"Aye-aye, sir," answered Copper.
Further conversation was made difficult by a general movement of the crowd. The voice of the huntsman could be heard above the babble. "Hounds, gentlemen, please."
The field, a long crocodile of pedestrians, cyclists and cars, followed the hounds down the road. Cub, caught in the press, moved with it. From time to time he could see their car but he had no chance to speak to Trapper, or to Copper, who was driving. In fact, not until hounds were put into the four-acre copse of undergrowth called the Gorse did he get an opportunity to speak to Gimlet. Then it was Gimlet who did the talking.
"Never mind the fox," he said curtly. "Our job is to watch Freddie. Keep as close as you can behind me. If you lose me, or if I should take a toss, don't wait. Follow Freddie. If anything happens—and anything can happen in this crowd—you'll have to act as you think best."
"Okay, sir," acknowledged Cub, holding with difficulty his mount, now crab-walking in her impatience to be away. He wanted to say something else, for out of the corner of his eye he had noticed a large dark green saloon car among those crawling along the nearby road to watch the proceedings; but at that precise moment somewhere in the near distance a huntsman wound his horn and a voice wailed. "Gone—away." That was enough for the little black mare. She reared, and when Cub next saw Gimlet he was fifty yards away.
The next few minutes, before the field settled down, were minutes of confusion in which he nearly knocked down an elderly parson whose enthusiasm had clearly exceeded his discretion. Cub's mount was almost unmanageable in her excitement, but as she knew the game and followed the field no harm was done beyond the fact that he was now some distance from the road so had no further chance to look at the green car.
The first fence, an ugly "bullfinch," thinned the crowd considerably, most of the riders making for the nearest gate. Of those who tried to take the fence some were left because their mounts refused. Others fell. Cub nearly came down himself. The black took the fence gamely enough, but it was almost beyond her and she stumbled on landing. Cub was pitched on to her neck but hung on, and with a gasp of relief got back into the saddle. Before him stretched a rolling pasture beyond which was a belt of trees into which hounds were just disappearing. There were not more than a dozen riders in front of him. He made out Freddie, with Tom Leach close behind. followed by Gimlet, riding smoothly. As far as the circumstances permitted Cub scanned the others, but as was to be expected, they were all strangers to him and he gathered no useful information from his inspection.
Some were in hunting pink, obviously members of the hunt. He noticed a woman, bowler hatted and veiled, riding astride a good-looking bay, and riding well.
Without losing its order the field went on through the belt of trees to a main road on the far side, clearly indicated by a thick collection of telegraph wires that accompanied it.
Here a farm hand had sensibly opened a gate, so the field went on across the road without casualties. In crossing, out of the tail of his eye, Cub noticed some cars, one of which he thought was their own; but there was no time to confirm this. A broad sweep of stubble lay ahead. Freddie was well on his way across it, followed by several riders, now strung out. Gimlet was still there, as was Tom Lench. Hounds could not be seen, but they were evidently on a high scent for their voices could be heard, indicating the direction of the run. Cub saw Gimlet look round and assumed he was looking for him, so he sat down to ride in the hope of catching him; he did, in fact, succeed in closing the distance somewhat, but nothing more.
A field of roots, another stubble, and Cub glimpsed hounds swinging round in a wide curve as if the fox might be trying to make back for the Gorse. Two riders came down at the next fence, a "cut and laid" with a ditch on the far side. Cub's mare made no trouble over it, however, and when things had settled down again he could see only five people in front of him—Freddie, Lench, Gimlet, an elderly man in pink who had lost his hat, and the woman he had previously noticed, in that order, an order that was maintained for the next two or three miles, by which time the woman had nearly caught up with the hatless man. Without being particularly concerned, it
struck Cub that the woman was riding unnecessarily hard on the heels of the old gentleman. With the whole field at her disposal there seemed to be no need for it. The thought struck him that she might be a friend, or relative. But when, for no apparent reason that Cub could see, the old man fell with a fearful crash, he thought otherwise; for the woman without even a glance behind her, rode on. As Cub passed the old man was lying flat on his back; fortunately he had fallen clear, but his mount was galloping away and he was out of courtesy tempted to go after it; or at least stop to see how badly the old man was hurt. For a moment he hesitated in indecision, and at that moment, for the first time, it struck him that what he had seen had not been an accident. Remembering the green car he had an increasing desire to speak to Gimlet, to tell him of what he had seen.
A yokel running across the fi
eld helped him to make up his mind, so he rode on, determined if possible to catch up with Gimlet, leaving the yokel to take care of the fallen man.
A minute later another strange thing happened. With a swift thunder of hooves a rider overtook him. Wearing ordinary riding kit he was mounted on a raking light chestnut that seemed extraordinarily fresh. Cub caught a glimpse of a young, pale, tight-lipped face, as the newcomer tore on without taking the slightest notice of him. Again Cub stared at the horse. Unlike his mare, which was in a lather, it was not even sweating. He could only conclude that the rider had just joined in the hunt. How and from where he had so suddenly appeared he could not imagine, and the uneasy feeling of which he had previously been aware, struck him with renewed force. He looked at the man again, although by this time he could only see his back. The fellow, he noticed, had a stiff, military seat, and carried something like a small satchel slung over his shoulder. Apart from that Cub learned nothing. He could not recall seeing the man or the horse at the meet. The man caught up
with the woman rider and then steadied his pace, so that the two rode almost side by side.
Filled now with definite misgivings Cub called on his mare for a final effort in the hope of overtaking Gimlet, but he could get no nearer that fifty yards. Gimlet still turned occasionally and must have seen him, as he must also have seen the man and woman close behind him; but he in turn was obviously trying to keep in touch with Freddie, so he let the grey have its head, apparently content with things as they were.
At this juncture there came a change in the situation, and for this renard was responsible.
Hounds, in full cry, appeared suddenly in a dip on Cub's left. Fifty yards ahead of the leader ran a very tired fox, his brush trailing, caked with mud. It was clear that he was nearly all in, and with the cunning of his kind he obviously intended back-tracking his own scent to the Gorse, or to the belt of trees through which the hunt had passed earlier.
A hundred yards behind hounds came Freddie, yoicking, following as fast as a weary horse could carry him. Behind came Gimlet. Of Lench there was no sign.
04 Gimlet Mops Up Page 5